The Salesman

It was the second November I had spent in the little village and I had begun to think that coming back again was a mistake. Returning alone, it became apparent to me just how strange this area was. It seemed almost as if the people were stuck somewhere back in the last century. 

Upon my arrival I had been surprised to find the absence of any real modern conveniences. The request for a television in my room had brought nothing but a raised eyebrow from the formidable Mrs Morgan. I realized then how distracted I must have been on my first visit. But then again, not many people request a TV on a honeymoon.

As I walked along, I wondered if this winding dirt road had ever known the presence of a modern vehicle. The lane was narrow and deeply rutted with the thin scars of horse-drawn wagons, the transportation still preferred by the backward townsfolk. 

The morning air held the chill of an autumn frost and patches of thin layered fog still hung in scattered veils above the ground. I walked aimlessly along the tree lined path, hoping the brisk countryside would calm the restless knot that threatened me from within. Instead, the haunting strangeness of the landscape seemed only to add to my feelings of uneasiness. 

There was an annoying pull at my senses, a subtle little tug at the back of my brain. It was as if some deeply buried memory was nagging its way to the surface. I had felt this sense of deja vu earlier this morning when I was writing. The poem that resulted had tumbled out so easily onto the paper that it had nearly written itself. It had given me an uncomfortable feeling of being invaded with another person's thoughts.

The bend in the road brought my mind back to the scenery ahead. Could it only have been a year since I had skipped happily down this lane with William? My heart gave a painful twist as I remembered the last vacation spent here. The carefree laughter of the two lovers still rang in my ear as I slowly wound my way past the giant old oak. I paused for a moment to remember the two impassioned lovers that once lay in the shadow of this gnarled old tree. Tears sprang to my eyes as the vision tore its way through my heart and I sank to the ground, giving in to the racking sobs that I had held inside for so many months.

Several minutes passed as I sat holding my knees and crying out my misery to the frost covered trees. Suddenly, I was roused from my anguish by the creaking sound of an approaching wagon. I rose to my feet and self-consciously wiped the tears from my eyes and brushed the clinging debris from my jeans. My first instinct was to step behind the tree and hide from the sound that had encroached upon my reverie. Instead, I fought for composure, forcing my mouth into the semblance of a smile.

The arrival of a shabby old man leading a horse and cart did nothing to dispel the eerie feelings of displacement. Present time seemed to shift gears and I was thrown backward. The man's appearance seemed to fit the mood of the morning. His body was stooped and the leathery face resembled a wrinkled winter apple. His clothes were worn and faded and as dull as the grey fog that misted through the bare-limbed trees. His head was lowered and he moved with a slow lethargic gait that filled me with a strange sadness. The movement of his feet stirred the hanging fog into translucent serpents that scurried from his bent frame like swirling ghosts. The horse that followed beside him had the same listless stride as his master and I felt a tug of compassion for this unusual pair. 

Striving harder for a friendly smile, I posed in greeting and waited for him to notice me. The horse snickered a wary hello as he sensed my presence. At the sound, the man raised his head as if roused from a dream. As he caught sight of me he smiled and lifted a stained knobby hand in a courteous greeting.

"Mornin' Miss, " he said as he gallantly tipped his weathered hat. "Looks like it's gonna be a good one after the fog lifts.”

His voice was strong and clear and he spoke with just the trace of an accent. I immediately thought of an actor playing a role not suited to the man himself. His drab suit was wrinkled and hung loosely on the thin frame. His graying hair was untidy and his face shadowed with dark stubble. The boots he wore seemed too large and heavy for such a slight man and I felt they had probably belonged to someone else originally.

"And what might a young miss like yerself be doin' walkin’ about this time of the mornin'?"

With this question he stopped the horse and stood smiling, obviously awaiting an answer. My apparent apprehension at his nearness on this deserted stretch of road caused the stranger’s demeanor to soften and lowering his voice he said kindly, "Are ye in need of assistance? May I offer ye a ride back t’ town?"

No longer fearing the man with the kind blue eyes, I replied, "No, thank you, I'm fine. I'm just out for a walk and I guess got a little sentimental."

"Sentimental? Then ye’ve been here before?"

"Yes, last November with …my husband."

"Stayin' at the Morgan house, are ye?"

I nodded as he continued, "Yer not the lass that writes poetry then?"

"Yes, I'm afraid that's me."

Straightening his shoulders, he smiled and offered his hand. "Well, I'm pleased to meet ye. Let me introduce myself. I'm Dan O’ Callahan at yer service!" His smile broadened and he said proudly, "See Dan th' Man for yer pots n' pans!" Which he followed by waving a hand toward his cart. 

It was then that I noticed the words painted on the side: “O’ Callahan’s Mobile Sales.” The irony of this modern sign on this rustic old wagon caused me to burst out in laughter. 

Quickly apologizing, I said, "I'm sorry, it’s just the word mobile that threw me.”

Obviously not offended by my laughter, he said, "Ol’ Paddy here keeps me movin’ don't ye Boy?" With this he reached up and stroked the animal’s ear.

"Now then, what can I show ye t’day? Somthin’ to cheer ye, eh?”

Turning to his cart he said, "Ah, I've just what ye need. Went on sale jist today, ha!” 

With a quick movement he whisked back the canvas cover that hid his samples. The cart was filled with ancient looking odds and ends of various shapes and sizes. The pots and pans that hung on the side were battered and dull and the garden tools that lay near the back were rusty. There were shoes that looked as if they had already been worn and blankets that were frayed at the edges. Several closed boxes were stacked neatly in rows and I tried to guess what might be inside. I figured whatever it might be had most likely seen better days. 

Out of curiosity I stepped closer and in a jovial voice he said, "Easy now, no pushin'! There's enough fer everyone!"

Reaching inside one of the boxes, he pulled out a worn leather diary that looked as if it might have easily been several years old. Handing it to me he said, "Fer yer poetry. Jist the thing!" 

He stood beaming at me as if prepared to receive my undying gratitude for such a valued article. Turning the diary over in my hand, I noticed that the leather was as frayed and faded as this strange old man. The edges of the paper were wrinkled and yellowed with age and I found myself wondering whether he meant to sell me this particular diary or if this was just a sample.

In what I hoped was a sincere voice I said, "I'm sorry, but by the time you could order me a new one I would be gone. I'm leaving tomorrow.”

With a quick reassurance he said, "Oh no, Miss, ye don't understand. You can take this one.”

He took a step closer and his voice softened, losing the businesslike tone he said gently, "I wouldn't give it up to anyone but you.”

Then looking into my eyes he said, "This is a special day, y’know."

I'll never be sure to this day exactly what filled me with the strange sense of recognition for this eccentric old salesman. But as I was standing next to him with that decrepit old diary in my hand, I felt strongly that we were tied together by some unknown link in time.

Suddenly I felt calm, almost happy. I knew this man! I didn't know how or when, but here on this deserted and misty lane, a door opened and I remembered.

Time became a dreamlike coexistence of past and present. Silently I reached into my jean’s pocket and took out the five dollar bill from inside and extended my hand out toward him. While looking even deeper into my eyes, he too reached out, gently taking my hand in his and wrapping my fingers into a fist with the bill still inside. Speaking in that hauntingly familiar voice he said, "The dreams are free - no charge."

For a long moment we stood that way, hand in hand, staring at each other in a mutual sharing of some remote yesterday. Suddenly I realized that I was cold. The fog had begun to lift and it was brighter but strangely, I was chilled to the bone. The old man gradually withdrew his hand from mine and in a bowing gesture took his rough stained fingers and gently wiped the newly-fallen tears from my eyes, “’Till then lass.”

He then turned and with the same gentle manner reached up to his horse and taking hold of the halter silently tugged the animal into motion. I stood quietly watching the cart until it turned the corner and faded from sight. The unhappiness that I had felt such a short time ago was gone and in its place a feeling of completion. I had somehow regained a loss. Yes, it was very special day.

Abruptly, I remembered the diary and decided that I should immediately try to capture as much of this haunting experience as possible. I took a pencil from my jacket. The latch was so ancient that it opened at first try. I spread open the pages and to my amazement noticed that there was writing inside. Momentarily disappointed, I searched through for an empty page. The ink was smeared in spots but most of the words were legible. I was pleased when I discovered that throughout the pages were several poems. Disappointed at not finding an unused page, I decided instead to do some reading. 

The style of the writing itself was rather outdated, but something about the script caught my eye. Immediately my heart began racing and my hands trembled as I realized what I was seeing. The poems were mine! The poem that I was reading was one that I had written myself. Some of the wording was slightly different, but it was my own poem.

In a daze I leafed through the pages and gasped loudly as I saw the words that lay in front of me. Here in this antique diary, written perhaps a century ago, was the very poem that I had jotted down this morning. Now, I realized why the handwriting had looked so strangely familiar to me …it was my own.